


If You Love Me, Let Me Go

by susiephalange



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Domestic Violence, F/M, Female!Reader - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Protective Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9123538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: James Barnes had talked to you first, well, first after Steve. As a regular human being, and not that much of a general superhero, it stunned you; he had turned to you, eyes flicking from the bottom to the top of your form like predator assessing prey, and instead of striking, uttering a good morning.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm supposed to be doing my uni work but my house is under renovation and it's hard to study about text and culture when there's a jackhammer above your head...sorry if it's not my best work, but I had to pass the time some way. Also I had a (dream? I don't think I was sleeping) about Bucky like this and had to write it down for all y'all.

 

James Barnes had talked to you first, well, first after Steve. As a regular human being, and not that much of a general superhero, it stunned you; he had turned to you, eyes flicking from the bottom to the top of your form like predator assessing prey, and instead of striking, uttering a good morning. Steve had been silent while the interaction took place, watching carefully. But now it was four months after, and while cautious, James - now, remembering the nickname Bucky - would speak to close friends, fellow Avengers, and on the odd occasion, the mailman (but only if he dared to come up the driveway to get a signature-on-delivery scribble.

But as much as the team would claim, you knew he wasn't the A-OK Bucky he used to be. Nobody can come to hell and back again, and still be the same person they once were. He would flinch when a camera flash would click. Recoil at a _bang!_ – whether it was a car backfiring, or a dropped dish. He was in all senses of the term, a veteran, and a victim, and more importantly, had a very bad case of PTSD he hid quite craftily from even Steve himself.

But he couldn't hide it forever.

It was the week after Christmas, where everything is hectic in retail, and slow at home and at the office downtown, when someone noticed that you had a hickey on your inner neck, and that was when everyone discovered that you liked to go downtown and stay down by the party scene. It woke something up in Bucky; he never knew you liked the pounding of bass, the throbbing of humans crammed into a warehouse party. It was a recent thing in your life, too, and you shook off the attention the Avengers gave you like a stray fly landing on your arm. 

"So what, I'm a party-goer," you laughed, "It doesn't make me less of a focused fighter for the team. I'm still your arsonist. Just with a little EDM." you winked at Tony, who, having the conviction you were a sweet young thing, was quite visually flabbergasted at the awakened news. 

But the next time it came up was when you arrived on mission after a rough weekend bender, and returned with a third of your face twisted and marked like a rotten plum, sore as a bruised peach. It was Bucky's first mission, and at seeing your face at the back of the quinjet half hidden, his heart dropped; you could see it in his eyes. 

"Holy martini," Tony gasped.

"What - Ms. ___________, what happened?" Steve, ever the formal man in the work environment, got down to the problem. His face was contorted into worry, much like you imagined Bucky to look like back in the 40's when he found the little punk fighting. He was watching you. In fact, all of them were. Waiting. 

You gave a weak chuckle. "You should have seen the other guy," you pull half a lip up to smile, but only achieving a wince with your sore face. If anything, you rose the tension in the air, and at this, your face dropped. "I fell down a fire escape, okay? Not a big deal."

Thor crossed his rope-like arms across his broad chest, brow set in a frown. He did not seem convinced. Neither did Bucky, who sat there, watching you without moving, without blinking, like a cat assessing its prey or toy before pouncing. But you knew the new Bucky; he did not like public spectacle, not since the incident with the Accords and such. So he stayed there, watching you, and you sat there, trying to avoid the judgement of the team. 

 

 

 

Bucky talked to you first, after the mission. You'd tried to run off quietly to the medbay, but he, the ever graceful man, managed to catch up with you, the injured ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, current Avenger, currently injured. He had a wild look in his eyes, like he had seen _that_ scene in the _Bambi_ movie recently, or was a young child whose toy had been wrecked. Before words could come from your mouth to halt him, he spoke. 

"It isn't just dancing, is it, _______?" Bucky never spoke your last name, knowing just how the formality was revolting to you. "I can see it in you. You're not going to parties."

"Bucky -," you protest, trying to push past to the infirmary. There was a whole plate of painkillers inside, and you had access codes, and as far as you cared, you were the one to call dibs on them. "It isn't on you. Let it slide."

He shook his head, his hair letting the sweat and dirt fly to the white walls, splatter the side of his pale neck. "Sure as hell it is. Who is it who's beating you black and blue? Tell me!" His voice came out as a deep growl, animal-like something completely inhuman. Your face pales, eyes wide; you were sure in that moment your blood ran the coldest it had ever been, your heart stopping. He seems to wake up from this micro-episode, and seeing your fear, transforms to the Bucky you know. "________-,"

You slip under his arm, and rush off from him, in the opposite direction to the painkillers.

 

 

 

It's a week later when you speak to Steve. You've taken time off from saving the world in a very lazy/coward move to try and get space from Bucky's noisiness and whatever that episode had been. Before that, he'd been fine. You guys were close as anything, but now, you doubted that  very much.

"I -,"

"__________, we have known each other for long enough to know running away for a week isn't going to solve whatever problem you have brewing between Bucky and you," Steve interrupts. He's tall like the Statue of Liberty, but the look in his eyes with those ropes of muscles crossed over his chest is just like the photographs of when he was the skinny, short man he used to be. "I thought we could talk to each other about things."

It's the disappointment in his voice that kills you inside. "...we can, Steve, I -," you close your eyes, and pull gently at your hair, "I'm not a party girl. I'm not even a fan of large crowds and recreational - anyways. I've been lying to everyone." your voice quivers. "I took a week off to get out. I needed to leave before he came back."

Steve's brow furrows. "He? Who's 'he'?" he wonders.

You can't seem to look at him, while uttering, "Years ago I fell for a guy named Frank. Years! And he went off and got married, had kids, went to the army, and - he's not the same guy, anymore. It was like living in a horrid hell, Steve, so I had to leave, when he was off..." you whisper. "I couldn't let anyone know he had me. They'd bring the torture, the hell-fire. And he thrives there."

Steve looks downright murderous. "Burning?"

You shake your head, shaking all over your body. "No. In hell."

 

 

 

Bucky stood by the door, overhearing all that had transpired. He'd never imagined - never picked it up. Never thought that the amazing ________ _________ had been kept like an at-home prisoner, living in a domestic hell. He'd never picked it up that she'd been lying about the dancing and the fire escape. But in that moment, Bucky didn't care that she had been lying her ass off, had run away from him in a minor glitch-like relapse, hadn't seen his face, heard his apology for it all.

He cared only for her. And if it took hunting down this Frank guy, he'd do it. 

He went to grab his gear, to run, but he stopped. There was a hand on his arm, and looking down, slowing down, he realised who the hand belonged to. _______ stood there, the bruises fading, eyes bright as ever, lips pulled back into a small, sad smile. Her hair was mussed, and there were bags below her eyes, and her nails were bitten to stubs. But he couldn't deny it. She was beautiful, she had always been beautiful, and kind, and caring, and able to look out for herself. She'd been the first he'd talked to (besides Steve), and he didn't mind very much if she was the last person he'd talk to. 

"He's not your problem," she whispered.

He nodded. Murder was murder, no matter the intention. But with the heart in his chest, swelling with every second he looked at her, there was nothing inside Bucky that wanted to kill anyone, no matter how scummy they were. All he wanted to do was love. Love her.

"Let Daredevil handle with that prick," she added softly, her hand dropping from his arm. 

Bucky's fingers linked between hers, in the spaces that seemed made for his. He gave a small smile, a weak smile, and drew the pyrotechnical arsonist close to his chest, and laid his head atop her own. 

"For you, doll, anything."  

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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